Path of a Novice

by R K Lander

  “And Lainon.”

  “My Prince.”

  “It is good to see you. I missed you,” he said quietly.

  Lainon smiled at the prince, his heart breaking for the boy because in that one sentence he had shown the colour of his life, the colour of loneliness.

  ***

  Lainon had silently left and Handir felt his entire body sag, a testimony to just how much his former guard’s words had affected him. He felt tired, exhausted almost and so he slowly lowered himself to the ground and sat, alone in the glade, alone and numb, shocked to the core at what Lainon had told him.

  ‘ . . . You have a Silvan brother—one you have never met . . .’

  He wanted to think, to analyse but he could not, for his thoughts flew this way and that, with no order, only chaos and his heart throbbed mercilessly, locked in a strange battle with his mounting anger—at his father, his mother.

  ‘ . . . a brother . . .’

  Lainon was surely mistaken, his mind screamed, but the information the Ari’atór had given him had been more than enough it seemed. If Lainon believed it, Handir could not gainsay him and yet—surely, surely it was impossible . . .

  But it wasn’t, and in his heart, he knew the truth of it.

  ‘A Silvan brother.’

  ‘A fledgling warrior. The best I have ever seen.’

  His eyes filled with tears until they became too heavy to contain. That was why their mother left, he realised suddenly, for the conclusion had simply and quite naturally, clicked into place.

  That is why she could not stay—it had not been a simple case of infidelity; a child had been conceived. It had not been a one-night affair, it had been a matter of the heart. All those years of suffering, of not understanding why she had abandoned them, thinking she had left them only because their father had committed adultery, for selfish pride. It had not been like that at all—she had left because their father had loved another woman, had loved her enough to give her a child.

  He could not say how he felt about anything right now. Would he have done the same in the queen’s position? Would he have left them all behind to escape the pain? Could he have forgiven and forgotten for the sake of his children? And could he ever forgive his Silvan brother for driving his mother away? For tearing his family apart? As he had said to Lainon, the heart wins over short distances and he wondered if his could ever tackle his overwhelming sense of betrayal.

  Chapter Seven

  Changing Tides

  “The Alpine warriors of Tar’eastór created a code that, once undertaken, could not be broken. The Warrior’s Code was an oath not all elves could embrace for it came at a high price. A life for the safety and protection of king and land. Unconditional service unto death. Warriors were revered and they in turn revered those they protected. There was little that could overshadow the love and devotion of the people for their glorious warriors.”

  The Silvan Chronicles, book II. Marhené.

  ***

  Why Fel’annár had cast his eyes over the group of on-looking parents, sweethearts and siblings as he took his vow he could not explain, for there was no one there for him; no father, no mother, no aunt or siblings. And yet he had spotted the face of a young Alpine lord in fine robes who had been standing towards the back. His hair was of dark gold and his skin white and smooth. But it was not his colouring that had caught Fel’annár’s attention. It was the vague similarity in their features, that and the way the lord had looked upon him. Perhaps he too, was surprised and there was no wonder, for Fel’annár’s features were regarded as unique and although this enigmatic lord did not have his own, admittedly strange green eyes, his face was familiar all the same.

  He had shaken himself mentally, turning to re-join his fellow novices, smiling at them as he moved to stand beside them, but try as he might, he had not been able to resist one last glance at the crowd, only to find young lord gone.

  Well he was half Alpine himself and was only now encountering more elves of that race. His features had always been a cause for comment and yet now, despite his unique eyes, Fel’annár fit better with the Alpines here in the city than he did with the Silvan people. He was not sure he liked that thought and he wondered if, perhaps, he would be allowed to wear his leather bracelets with his uniform. He mentally snorted at himself for the childish idea but his left hand moved up to touch the braided leather around his right wrist, the band Amareth had given him upon his coming of age.

  “Fel’annár.”

  “Um?” he responded distractedly, turning to meet the face of Idernon who now sat beside him.

  “Briefing is upon us.”

  Fel’annár took a moment to gather himself with a deep breath. He had been sitting here for too long and his muscles ached. His head too, was a thumping reminder of the night’s revelry.

  “The time is come then,” said Fel’annár.

  “Aye,” answered Idernon, eyes landing on Ramien beside him as he stood. “Our time together may be short, my friends, for there are only twenty novices for many quadrants.”

  “The Company will be disbanded then, broken before it truly begins,” said Ramien forlornly, unfolding his legs and joining Idernon, a sad smile stretching his lips. Reaching down, he offered his hand to Fel’annár who took it with a vigorous slap.

  “Never that, brother,” said Fel’annár, hoisting himself up. “The Company can never be disbanded for it is a bond of love and respect; that cannot be changed, nobody can change that and if we are indeed to be separated, we will continue to learn and evolve and when the time comes, when we are all three competent, seasoned warriors, we shall come together once more and be great,” he stressed, his eyes alight with the conviction that his words were true. “You will see. When I am able, I will find you and we shall ride together—for our king and our forest, for our people,” he smiled, his eyes fixing first upon Ramien and then on Idernon.

  “You truly are a leader of elves, Fel’annár,” said Idernon. “I have always known this and I tell you truly now, whatever I achieve in the years to come, you—will always be my Captain,” he almost whispered, his eyes bright with the emotion that had captured him, coloured his features and his words and made his eyes shine overly bright.

  “And mine,” said Ramien. “It is our destiny,” he smiled, glancing at Idernon to confirm he was not alone in this. “We choose you, and I swear all I do now, will be to make myself worthy.

  “I do not deserve such fine words, brothers,” he chuckled, even though his own eyes were bright. “I have yet to prove my mettle in battle. I am only a novice and you speak to me as a captain!” he laughed, but it was a nervous laugh, one Fel’annár used to diffuse the solemnity of the moment; but Idernon had not finished.

  “Nay—say not useless words, Fel’annár. There is nothing to prove, only to learn. You do not realise your potential yet, but I – we - we do. From the outside, things become clearer sometimes. I see your skill as a fighter, your heart as a protector. I see your senses, stronger than any other I have seen. You will be a leader, Hwind’atór. Of that we have no doubt.”

  There was no resisting Idernon’s heart-felt words and suddenly, all the bitterness of his early years, the recurrent self-pity made way for nascent belief—belief that he could truly do this; walk the path of a novice and become the warrior, the leader he was destined to be.

  ***

  Hours later, Turion watched the novice from afar as he performed his strange exercises, the ones the boy had invented for himself. It was beautiful to behold and the newly invested captain found himself mesmerised, even though it was not the first time he had seen it. The slow perfection of the movements, the effort behind every lunge, every arc of the long sword and swipe of the shorter sabre in his other hand; it was a treatise on power and precision.

  Round and round he moved, his blades in slow but continuous movement, slicing and arcing, ja
bbing and swivelling in his hands, pointing one way and then the other as his body moved to accommodate them—strange, realised Turion. It was normally the other way around; the body moved and the blade accompanied but in this style, the blade, the weapon, was the vehicle and the body adapted to whatever movements were necessary.

  Turion cocked his head to the side, assessing the virtues of the concept, watching the clever moves as they were performed at perhaps only a fourth of the speed with which he would need to do so in battle. It strengthened the muscles, he realised, perfected the move. The boy was good—he was very good.

  He remembered then that one of the other recruits had called him Hwind’atór, the Whirling Warrior. He understood now, for the child was, quite literally dancing with the blades; a whirling surge of pure, measured power that would not easily be vanquished upon the battlefield. The thought that Fel’annár was still a novice suddenly struck him as utterly absurd and he shook his head in a subconscious attempt to free himself of the ridiculous notion for the warrior he observed knew far more than any novice, any warrior Turion had ever met.

  Movement to his left alerted him to Lainon’s presence beside him but he did not turn to look.

  “I have read of the warriors of ancient Tar’eastór when still it had been called Ga’lenár. They trained in a similar manner—it is so foreign to our own methods and yet there is much merit in what he does,” said Lainon, his slanted eyes now anchored on the novice as he swivelled upon his heels and then flipped backwards.

  “Yes, it is in the War Tomes, book two I believe. I have read it,” murmured the captain.

  Lainon smiled at his friend. “How did he take the news of his assignment?” he asked.

  “His face was an open book, Lainon. He looked so young as he tried to process his impending separation with his friends. They have always been together it seems, his only family so to speak.”

  “Strange, is it not, for to look upon him now, there is nothing boyish or innocent in his movements. He is strangely—threatening and yet, paradoxically—vulnerable.”

  Turion turned his surprised eyes to his friend. “Yes,” he said in disbelief, “yes that is exactly it, Lainon. We have much work to do. We must teach him war craft, we must harden his mind, and we must lead him to closure where his family is concerned; prepare him for the truth he must soon hear, from us.”

  “He will make a good captain,” murmured Lainon.

  “Lainon,” answered Turion a little too quickly, now looking squarely at his Ari lieutenant, the light of some weighty truth shining in his eyes.

  “If I am right and we train him well, he will be more than a captain, my friend,” he said carefully, waiting for his friend’s reaction before continuing. “There is something about him, what made me leave the village barracks. I cannot put it into words—except this. The boy inspires loyalty—my loyalty,” he whispered, the shadow of incomprehension lurking beneath Turion’s stern features, an expression Lainon now shared; but he too, was lost for the words and so he sat, shoulder to shoulder with his captain and friend, and turned his eyes back to the Whirling Warrior—and smiled.

  Lainon still remembered the strange song he had heard when Fel’annár had arrived at the city barracks. It had been a song of proclamation he had thought at the time, unable to understand what that meant, and Turion’s strange words were one more piece of the puzzle Lainon had set out to solve.

  ***

  “You are quiet this morning, brother. Has that Silvan representative riled your Alpine blood?” asked Rinon ironically as he lounged upon the ample seating before the hearth of their family chambers.

  “No,” replied Handir distractedly, and when he offered no further information, Rinon turned to face him.

  “Well?

  A deep sigh preceded Handir’s words. “I am busy, Rinon.”

  “You have not but a moment to share in brotherly conversation?”

  “Since when do you, indulge in brotherly conversation Rinon? What is it you want?” asked Handir with a flick of his wrist.

  “I see I will have to change tactics,” said Rinon with a snort, before sitting up and leaning forward. “After this morning’s council meeting you spoke to that Forest Dweller privately; what did he want?”

  “Good morning,” came the voice of the king as he glided into the room and moved to pour himself a glass of apple juice. It had been an intense morning in the council chambers.

  Both brothers stood and bowed before sitting once more, Handir’s eyes trained on those of the crown prince, but the king was already answering Rinon’s question.

  “He is concerned Rinon, ‘tis all. You heard the reports from the North-west just as we did. They fear that by the time our warriors arrive that our crops will be lost. He seeks assurances and he is not getting them.”

  “What assurance does he think we can give him? We fight, is that not enough? We have lost a third of the North-western quadrant in but two seasons. Does he think more meat for the desert scimitars is easy to come by? Nay, we need a change in tactics if we are to win this war.”

  Handir’s look of disgust was seconded by a hardening of the king’s features, though it was fleeting.

  “Rinon, I do not believe that is what he thinks. What I believe he truly seeks is the knowledge that here, in the heart of the city, the Silvan villagers are esteemed by the Alpine well enough to feel for the plight of the Silvan people. He seeks to observe, to understand, to know that all that can possibly be done is being done. He wishes to assure his anxious people that the Alpine people are protecting them as best they can, and believe me, it is in our interest that he return to the forest and says it is so.”

  The king listened silently but Rinon huffed impatiently. “They seek our protection in a land that is not safe. They refuse to fall back and let our warriors deal with it—they are in the way, meddling in the affairs of the military and they are too mule-headed to step down and admit it.”

  “Rinon,” said Handir, raising his voice for the first time as he stood and approached his brother. “You speak of the Silvans as if they have no right to be protected in their own homes—you forget – that they are Silvan; their trees cannot be left alone to fend for themselves, they are just as much a part of their lives as the sun, the water and the earth – you cannot separate a Silvan from the forests, Rinon, you cannot ask them to forsake their sentinels. You asked me what Erthoron wanted because you do not possess that information. Are you now to tell me you in fact know his motives for seeking private council with me? That all he wants is more troops and to otherwise hinder our efforts to push back the enemy? It is absurd.”

  “You are overly naïve, Handir,” said Rinon, rising to his feet so that he could look at his brother on equal terms. “You do not see how he tries to manipulate you into sending more troops sooner, more supplies, more boons when what he should be doing is evacuating the area. He plays on your inexperience and you see it not.”

  Handir held the ice-cold eyes of his brother, his own warmer blue eyes steady and confident. “You confuse naivety with objectivity, brother. ‘Tis not always necessary to have an immediate opinion—sometimes one must wait and observe—you would do well to try for you speak of our citizens, be they Alpine or Silvan; do not presume the Silvans to be without their reasons – just because you do not understand them does not mean they are not there. Do not succumb to ignorance but more than this, do not show them your ignorance.”

  The king raised an eyebrow, his keen eyes moving from Handir to Rinon and still, he remained silent.

  “Clever words, Councillor. And that is all they are. Keen is your mind but you are still so young, have never seen battle and likely never will. You cannot see the sacrifice of our warriors, all you see are the demands of the foresters and the political implications. You do not understand what it costs to protect those villages, those crops,” he said as he moved closer to his brother. “H
eed your own words, brother. Be objective and consider at least the possibility that you are being played.”

  “I never discarded it, Rinon; I said only that you cannot presume that is, indeed, the case. I certainly do not. But now listen to me. Do not underestimate the political implications. Should Erthoron go home and claim we have not listened to the Silvan people, I do not need to remind you that they are in the majority. Tread carefully for they believe they are right to stay and defend the trees, just as you and our army believe you are right to demand they leave them behind. Something must change.”

  They stared levelly at each other for a moment, before Rinon nodded and moved away, his eyes meeting those of his father before leaving the room.

  “I fear Rinon moves ever closer to Lord Band’orán and our cousin Barathon,” said Handir, almost as if he spoke to himself. “With every day that passes I sense a growing—disdain—towards the Silvans. It is misplaced, unfounded, and dangerous.”

  “Handir,” said the King, speaking for the first time since he had entered the room. His voice although soft, was loud enough to draw the prince’s attention and pull him out of his inner musings.

  “My King,” he answered, the hint of a question in his tone.

  “Watch him, Handir. Anchor him if you can. This rift between the Silvan people and our military rulings must not be allowed to grow for the Silvans already feel they are treated as inferiors by the Alpine majority here in the city.”

  “And they would be right,” said Handir.

  “Yes,” said the king carefully. “Alas that is a growing reality, but what we forget is that out there,” he pointed to the Great Forest, “out there, they are the majority—and we cannot live without the forest, Handir, we cannot live without the Silvan natives of this land. If the Silvans revolt, we may have civil war on our hands.”